


The Fall of Francis

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: FrUKnewyears2015, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When WWII leads to France falling to the Germans, Arthur Kirkland has but one question on his mind: What has befallen his French counterpart? Unsure whether his neighbour and oldest rival is now friend or foe, Arthur decides there is just one thing he can do. He must go to France himself. </p><p>(2015 FrUK New Years' Gift Exchange present for tumblr user lafrancecestmoi)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall of Francis

Churchill’s office was quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the ever-present soft fall of rain outside.

“Occupied?” Arthur repeated. “Completely, formally… taken?”

“Utterly, completely,” replied the Prime Minister. “The krauts have finally got their hands on the south, and France has fallen.”

The clock continued to tick, and the nation of England shifted in his leather chair.

“What about,” Arthur paused to swallow around a large lump in his throat. “What about _France_?”

“You mean their fellow like you?” asked Churchill, waving his cigar in Arthur’s direction.

“Yes sir. Do you have any idea where he is, whether he still stands with us?” He fought to keep his voice professional. “The condition he’s in can tell us a lot about France’s chance as a nation, whether they’ll be able to survive this. If he’s still willing and able to fight, then we can count on support from the locals, resistors, remainders of the French army…”

“And if he isn’t?” asked the Prime Minister.

“Then France truly has fallen, sir.”

“That’s what I thought…” he trailed off, staring deep into the surface of his desk as if it could somehow reveal to him everything they needed to know about the situation in France. “But I’m glad you brought him up.”

Arthur’s back somehow snapped to an even straighter posture. “So you have word?”

“No, actually, that was what I was going to assign to you.”

“…Sir?”

“Your existence… all of you,” the Prime Minister gestured to him with his cigar again, “you’re deeply classified information. None of our best spies are cleared to undertake a mission involving you in any way. So, you’re going to France.”

“You’re sending me into newly occupied enemy territory to look for someone who we have no intel on?”

“Precisely,” replied Churchill. “We’ve no way of contacting him otherwise. It’s not like the Nazi are going to let him keep that government phone line he used to have. But you’ve known this man… nation… person for – how long?”

“Over one thousand years, sir,” replied Arthur as he started to wonder just what his boss was getting at.

“By that point I think it should be rather hard for him to completely evade you, hmm?” The cigar was being waved around again. “You must have some idea where he could be.”

Arthur quickly ran through Francis’ preferred places of residence in his mind, crossing them all off as he went. There really wasn’t anywhere for Francis to hide now that the whole country was taken, and Arthur really couldn’t tell where he would prefer to be. In the south, where the newly conquered people needed him most? In the north, where there was likely to be less conflict? Could he possibly have escaped the country all together, or had he been captured by the invading forces? Frankly Arthur didn’t have a clue, but at the same time there was no way he was going to find out anything about France’s situation unless he went in personally. Hence, there was nothing for it but to lie directly to his superior’s face.

“I know just where to go.”

 

* * *

_Your name is Yves Vidal, you were born and raised in Lyon, where you worked until your jewellery store was destroyed in a conflict between German soldiers and the resistance. Now you are searching for work in the countryside, as the city is now too dangerous for your liking. You have no skills or special training, are not married and your parents and brother have been separated from you by the war. You would like to find them but do not wish to go out of your way to do so as you know this will likely result in conflict with German soldiers. You dislike the German presence but do not actively oppose it as you are frightened for your life. You are willing to work with and for them if it will help you or your family. Francis Bonnefoy was a childhood friend of yours and while you do not know where he currently is, you know he now lives somewhere in the area and is your only hope of contact outside of Lyon._

His first few missions as a spy for his country had seen Arthur desperately trying to remember all of his cover story and accidentally giving himself away multiple times, but by now it was practically second nature. Yves Vidal had been all over France by now, always with the same falsified background, only the locations changing. And yet every time his “childhood friend”, Francis Bonnefoy, had remained elusive.

After his first failed attempt at espionage it had taken months to convince Churchill to let him back into the field but with the situation in France worsening with every passing day, soon Arthur was spending more time as Yves than as himself. He hadn’t been home to England in over half a year by the dawn of 1944, spending his days instead running around France, yet in all that time he had found nothing. Even after spending months infiltrating a German command centre to gain access to their highest officer’s most secret files, there had been nothing about Francis. Still, Arthur remained convinced the Germans had never gotten his hands on his neighbour. Ludwig, with that hideous twisted new persona Hitler had morphed him into, would certainly have dropped him some secret taunt as soon as they did. He was, after all, one of the very few who knew about Arthur’s feelings for Francis.

Perhaps he should not have treated Vicky and Albert’s marriage as such a great invitation for friendship and confidance after all.

And yet the German silence was possibly the most terrifying aspect of it all. If they had Francis, Arthur would have been able to swoop in like one of those ridiculous comic book heroes Alfred loved with tanks and reinforcements appearing out of nowhere as he battled legions of Germans and possibly a brainwashed Francis himself. But no, instead Francis was somewhere completely unknown to either side of the war, where neither friend nor foe had any chance of recovering him. With each of his city haunts searched or destroyed and all of his country homes found to be empty, Francis could be anywhere. By this point, Arthur was picking locations practically at random.

No one in this tiny country region near Lyon had ever seen a Francis Bonnefoy, and Arthur wasn’t surprised. There wasn’t really anything special about this place, Francis had never mentioned any great love of it or anything and he didn’t own a house or farm in the area. But he did know the place, that Arthur was certain of. Back in the disgusting days of yore, when there was very little to do except go hunting, Francis liked to take Arthur into the wilderness that once dominated this area and “teach” him to hunt. Of course, Arthur’s preferred roughness of lifestyle ensured that he always surpassed Francis in all of their hunting trips but neither ever seemed to bring it up. It was simply what they did.

The area was almost unrecognisable nowadays, with much more farmland and towns and much less forest, but Arthur knew it regardless. Of course Francis wouldn’t be there, but that didn’t mean Arthur didn’t want to visit it.

On his way from one tiny hamlet to the next, he came across a small cradle of untouched woodlands. Somehow the trees still looked inviting, as familiar as home even after hundreds of years. They even smelled the way Arthur remembered, and he hadn’t even realised he’d retained so much from that distant past. Before he even really knew what he was doing, he walked straight into the woods and found himself poking about this ancient patch of land. What he was looking for he couldn’t exactly say, he certainly hadn’t bothered to hope Francis was nearby, and yet he was soon searching the area with just as much fervour as he had searched Francis’ homes.

It was clear the desperate times of war had sent locals back to the wood to hunt, with large scratches in the trees and everything from broken handmade arrows to poor quality bullets littering the ground. More revealing, there was a stark lack of fallen wood and abandoned animal carcasses about, too. Arthur wasn’t surprised – he’d been all over the country by now and knew how the people were suffering – but the state of affairs never failed to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. If only he could find Francis, figure out what their chances of getting the Germans out was…

And suddenly, somehow, there he was.

Right in front of Arthur, crouched behind a thicket of some wild bush, beaten up old rifle in hand and clothed in the tattered remains of a French army uniform was Francis Bonnefoy. With his back to his neighbour and such an intent gaze on the woodland around him, Francis had failed to notice Arthur’s arrival. For his part, Arthur wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not. At least he was in control of the situation if Francis proved to be dominated by German influence, but on the other hand, the responsibility now fell to him to decide whether it was safe to interact with him at all.

A single glance at the condition of Francis’ rifle and the shakiness of his once sturdy frame was all the proof Arthur needed that the benefits of such a reunion outweighed the risks.

“Francis.”

The word was quiet, controlled, yet somehow still seemed to stumble on their way out of Arthur’s mouth. England began to inwardly curse himself for a display of uncertainty so flagrant it disguised his voice when it suddenly became quite clear just who the anxious one in this situation was. Seeing how Francis quivered, how his head jerked to the side and then just as suddenly hid itself once more, how he fumbled with the rifle and his breath heaved, was almost too much for Arthur to bear.

“Francis…”

It was no secret Arthur relished seeing his oldest rival and closet neighbour defeated, that he loved to go to war with him and defeat him in every international competition the world presented. But this? This shaking mess of starvation and fear? This was not victory. This was not Arthur’s doing – and even if it were, he would be disgusted with himself. Francis was supposed to stand and fight, to roll with the punches and to deliver his own. He was supposed to look Arthur in the eye and grin with that beautifully cruel glint of animosity, not gaze into a forest and tremble.

“ _C’est moi_ , Arthur. I’m here to help,” he continued in French.

“Aren’t you worried the Germans have got to me?” Francis whispered in reply.

“I can’t imagines the Germans would let you cower and starve in a forest in the middle of nowhere,” replied Arthur, yet he kept his distance all the same.

“How would you know?” Francis had clearly intended to spit these words but his condition had betrayed him, leaving them hoarse and faltering.

“Just let me help you already,” said Arthur. “Get up, I’ll take you to London, my government will keep you safe while we get the Germans out, you’ll heal and any influence they had on you will fade. We can fix this.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?” Arthur’s eyes narrowed and he was suddenly aware of the holster and gun tucked safely beneath his jacket.

“Can’t stand up, I mean,” said Francis, his voice breathy as if he were laughing at his own pain.

“Injured?” asked Arthur.

“No, but you might be.”

Although he had only made the barest of movements towards Francis so far, at these words England leapt backwards and drew the small handgun he’d been issued with.

“A trap, then?” he demanded, although he had been near certain there was no way Francis had been acting. It had all seemed so real, the stink of fear and desperation still in the air. Yet of course it had been too good to be true, stumbling across Francis in some random wood like this. How could he even have let himself hope?

“I don’t know.”

Arthur fought to keep his gun steady despite his growing frustration. Why couldn’t France just be clear with him, what was the point of these stupid games?

“Out with it,” said Arthur. “Who do you stand with? Us, or Germany?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” replied Francis, his voice catching.  

“I can’t put the gun down until I know you won’t hurt me,” said Arthur, quieter than before.

“Well, considering I can’t _move_ ,” said Francis and Arthur’s heart ached at how his old nemesis’ voice had fallen from a slick drawl to a breathy stutter.

Finally, Arthur sighed and tucked his gun back into its holster, getting to a crouch in front of Francis.

“I don’t want to hurt you, you know,” he said, keeping his eyes far from Francis.

“That’s a first,” smiled Francis quietly.

“Can’t you just tell me what happened?” asked Arthur. “Why you say you don’t know which side you’re on?”

“There isn’t much to tell,” replied Francis. “I was in Paris when it fell. It felt… wrong, almost like giving up, if I’d been elsewhere. The Nazis didn’t get me though, not personally. But once it was all over, all official, I felt like I’d died. And I’d thought  the revolution had been bad.” Here he paused to let out a shaky laugh. “The first thing I tried to do, once I’d gotten out of the city and into some little village or other, I tried to figure out if I was suddenly a Nazi. To be honest it was,” he gave something that may have been either a laugh or a sob, “it was hard to tell.”

“Francis.” For some reason, despite this confession, Arthur did not feel as if the man he was sitting across from was a danger. “Did you hurt anyone?”

“No, no,” said Francis. “I was… too weak. But I was full of something… Hatred or anger or… I’m not sure. Not sure at what it was directed or if I was going to lash out at my own civilians. I still… still can’t really tell.”

“Well, you didn’t try to kill me,” said Arthur, not sure what to do with the tears that had formed in Francis’ eyes.  

“I haven’t tried to do anything,” replied Francis. “I’ve no control over myself anymore.”

“Yes you do,” said Arthur. “You can still move, if only a bit, and you’ve got a gun. You didn’t even try to shoot me.”

“But what if it is a trap,” said Francis, his voice the firmest it had been so far. “If there’s some dormant, Nazi part of me just waiting until you let your guard down so I can strike and it can take control of me and _I lose_?”

“I don’t…” Arthur stopped as he realised there was suddenly a lump in his throat for some reason. “I don’t think it’s a trap. No one that scared of being a Nazi actually is one.”

“We don’t know,” Francis said, defeated.

“Please,” said Arthur, “let me help you.” He offered Francis his hand, but his old nemesis simply stared at him though heavy eyes.

“I could kill you.”

“Well, you’ve never managed it before,” said Arthur with a smirk. “I’d like to see you try now.”

Francis laughed, truly laughed instead of that disgusting self-depreciating shudder, and Arthur’s smirk slipped into a more genuine smile.

“I’m sure you would.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year lafrancecestmoi! I'm so sorry it's so late, I guess I signed up for a few too many secret-santa type things while entering my last year of high school and ended up getting rather snowed under. I hope you enjoy it anyway, because I really enjoyed writing it. All of your prompts were such good ideas I almost couldn't decide which to write! But I do have a weakness for exploring the extent of the nations' free will, so you got me there :3


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